Through Lawyer, Deputies Issue Apology
for Wrong Door Break-In
By CHARLTON WOOLTON, Times Staff Writer
8 deputies who broke down the wrong door of a City of Industry residence, mistaking it for a narcotics distribution site, apologized Friday through their lawyers for the damage, including the shooting of a family dog. Doctors said the early-morning break-in was a contributing factor to a heart attack suffered by the apartment tenant Raymond Rausch, 76. He was hospitalized for 5 days. Both Mr Rausch and the dog, “Friar Tuck,” have since recovered and been released from their respective caregiving facilities.
“These fine deputies that stand with me today wish to offer their unqualified and sincere apology to Mr Rausch,” said attorney Emmerich Pitori, general counsel of the Los Angeles County Professional Sheriff’s Assn.
Sheriff Phin Oldwalder said he could not recall any other law enforcement officers in Los Angeles delivering mea culpas for a controversial police action. “This has never happened in this county and this speaks well for the integrity of these deputies.”
The apology came at a news conference at the Los Angeles Athletic Club, called after an outcry from the ACLU. Mr Rausch has so far declined to take legal action, and somewhat colorfully characterized himself as a longtime supporter of “police and firemen.”
“Sometimes we simply do not have the time, when the safety of the community is concerned, for due diligence when it comes to intelligence sources that have in the past been tested and deemed reliable. Each one of the deputies, to a person, wishes things would have been different and certainly wish the information they had been given that night had been more accurate.”
Hours after the break-in, a correct address was verified, and deputies made an arrest just blocks from Mr Rausch’s Mercantile Road residence. Washington Lamont Birdell III was taken into custody for possession of narcotics and firearms.
IT was “all good,” according to the ACLU attorney.
Ray hated that phrase. It sounded juvenile and disrespectful.
2 members of counsel showed up at the apartment to cynically explain the timing of the Oldwalder press conference, saying it was “no accident,” and how the Sheriff was “well aware” they were “smack in the middle” of negotiations. But the old man didn’t find anything Machiavellian about it, once the 10-dollar adjective had been provided. To the lawyers’ silent consternation, Ray said he felt the police were being sincere. The legal team was really hurting because Ghulpa couldn’t provide necessary backup, seeing as she had to wrangle the Friar, who’d been chasing his tail, throwing up, and crying all day—stopping just long enough to viciously curl his lip at the suited men. Ray felt like doing a little of that himself. She finally got Nip to the bedroom and slammed the door behind them.
The offer had gone from 3-seventy-five to half a million, but they were almost certain the city would settle out at 7-fifty. To Ray’s and everyone’s surprise, the unseen Ghulpa shouted, “We’ll take it!” The visitors looked at Ray, and that was that.
Sold, at half a mil.
After a moment of readjusting ties and briefcases, the men were compelled to say it would be wise to go to jury, yet also acknowledged the wisdom of a settlement, for the sake of closure. Ghulpa emerged. The lawyers reiterated their position, this time more convincingly detailed and commonsensible, but she held ground, reaching out for her partner’s hand. He squeezed it in solidarity. Then one of the fellows said, “Good! Great! Terrific,” and Ray began signing a stackload of papers. BG made everyone chamomile.
There were so many documents, at one point Ray took a breather and sat back in his La-Z-Boy with a grizzled, sleepy-eyed grin. He had cadmium-yellow curry in the crook of his mouth and Big Gulp reentered from the kitchen with a damp cloth to roughly wipe him while she affectionately clucked. 30 minutes later, the whole crew hustled their happy asses out of there.
After they left, Ray told her how he’d visited Allied Trains while Nip/Tuck was getting a bandage change—the memories of bringing Chester to that place. He cautiously broached the name Lionel as a possibility, if they were to have a son. “Chester” didn’t feel right; she understood, and quietly agreed. (The cousins would probably wind up doing the christening anyway.) Ghulpa softly repeated: Lionel. What does it mean? she asked. Well, he said, inadvertently bobbling his head the Indian way—it’s the name of a train. His eyes widened and he smirked like a big, sweet clown while she kept the same blank look. “It’s the name of a famous toy train! But also,” he added, with utmost gravity, “the name of a very legendary actor: Lionel Barrymore. You know, come to think of it, Gulp, Lionel Barrymore was actually the American ‘Mr B.’ ” He was improvising, but had to admit that was a pretty good one. He probably should have thought it all through beforehand. Ghulpa didn’t seem entirely convinced.
That’s when Ray pointed out that lion was the name’s root. She didn’t react—which was good.
“Doesn’t your friend Durga ride on one of those?”
“We’ll see,” she said. “And if it’s a girl?”
He waited a moment, then said, “Lioness.”
She scowled, then laughed in spite of herself.
She went to let the dog out. He’d puked on the rug. She swore at him then soaked a towel to daub it up. The old man pushed PLAY on his Twilight Zone.
STANIEL Lake stopped by and was promptly bit—the Friar actually broke skin. That didn’t make Ray happy at all. The detective shrugged it off but Ghulpa was mortified and brought out alcohol and cotton swabs. The detective said he was fine and asked if he could wash his hand in the kitchen sink. The old man felt even worse because when it happened, he’d instinctively swatted Nip’s butt—the dog yelped and pitifully shuddered, even though the hit was nowhere near the wound.
“Don’t worry about it,” said the kindly Mr Lake.
Ghulpa put the dog back in the bedroom, where he began to shriek and howl. She shushed at him and somewhere a neighbor said, Shut it! Shut that crazy motherfucker up!
“Sorry about that,” said Ray. “He hasn’t been himself. We’re gonna get some help—Friar’s got ‘mental’ stuff. You sure you’re OK?”
“I’m fine. Not the 1st time. Hell, I was raised around dogs. He’ll have to do more than that to scare me off.”
“He just might! Had your tetanus?”
“Don’t even worry about it, Ray.”
“I may have to give a press conference myself,” joked the old man. Then he thought the remark sounded cavalier. He tried to balance it out. “You know, I really appreciated that—the words of those officers. I know they’re good men.”
He felt bad. He wasn’t sure if he should say they had reached a settlement; maybe it wasn’t kosher, legalwise. He forgot to ask the attorneys about that. He didn’t want to do anything to upset the applecart. But he made a note to eventually explain the decision to Detective Lake, why he’d agreed to accept the City’s terms, and let him know for the record there were no hard feelings—he was going to be a new father soon, that’s all, and worried about the child’s welfare and what the future held, plain and simple. He wanted to take the detective and his colleagues to the Pacific Dining Car when the money came in but didn’t know if that was allowed; again, if it was kosher. Oh, the hell with it, he’d do it anyway. He’d do it before—before he got a penny. He wanted to convene, explain himself to the cops so that when the news broke, they wouldn’t think he was a hypocrite or a greedy man because afterall they had the best intentions and he didn’t consider it to be their fault that things went wrong (like things sometimes/always do), they put their lives on the line each and every day, and they’d spoken from their hearts, and hadn’t been Machiavellian. He wanted to say all of that right this minute but BG kept shooting him looks, he understood those kinds of signals, she was telling him to bite down, button up, zip it, upset as she was about the dog chomping on their guest, she still wanted to protect her own, protect her man and the bump in her belly. She subtly glowered each time she sensed Ray was weakening, wanting to share his sappy thoughts with Mr Lake.
The detective stayed about an hour, watching The Twilight Zone on and off, before going his way. Ray asked if he’d like to have a meal one day soon and Ghulpa seemed fine with that—it was the right thing to have said. He apologized for the Friar’s uncivil behavior and again, the detective shrugged it off.
Ghulpa and Ray watched a Larry King rerun. He was interviewing the model who lost her fiancé in the tsunami, a beautiful girl who clung to a palm tree for hours before being rescued. She spent 3 weeks in the hospital with a broken pelvis.
Ghulpa shuffled in from the kitchen with food, staring spitefully at the screen.
“I will never return,” she said, as if suffering a fresh insult.
“But that’s Thailand, not India,” said the old man.
“My child will never see that terrible place. I don’t care.”
“Suit yourself.”